


by his teeth

by parsnipit



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Elemental Lore, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Growing Up, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Nonbinary Gaster, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Violence, Weird Biology, oh my god they were roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23550490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parsnipit/pseuds/parsnipit
Summary: The one wherein Grillby is a belligerent eldritch abomination—andperfect best friend material, as decided by one Dr. W.D. Gaster.
Relationships: W. D. Gaster/Grillby
Comments: 18
Kudos: 96





	by his teeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: violence, references to child abuse/neglect, references to nsfw, blood, descriptive injuries, minor body horror, brief implied sexual abuse

On Grillby’s very first day at the boarding school—only about ten minutes after breakfast, since he does hate procrastinating—he gets into the first of many, many fights. A centaur foal has the nerve to make a snide comment about Grillby’s species, so he throws himself at her with all the hot-blooded fury his tiny body contains. Mere seconds into the fight, she’s got a charred tail and a scorch mark across her flank, and he’s got a crisp hoofprint on his chest that makes it awfully hard to breathe. Even so, he straightens his shoulders and flares his flames and gets ready to throw himself back into the fray. That’s what his _species_ is for, after all, isn’t it?

Before he can pounce, a tiny and very important stranger flings themself into the way. 

“Stop it!” they shout, stomping one little purple boot against the ground. Grillby skids to a stop in surprise, and the centaur does the same, her hooves scuffing up clouds of dust. “No fighting allowed!”

The centaur deflates, her shoulders slumping. “It’s not _my_ fault. He burned me.”

The stranger—a skeleton child, Grillby sees now, made of fragile bone and empty spaces—whirls around and points angrily at Grillby. “You _don’t do that._ It’s mean.”

The centaur snorts her approval, and a shiver of rage rolls down Grillby’s spine. He opens his fiery maw, shows her the gleam of wicked obsidian teeth in a threat that would have any sensible monster retreating. (Even baby elementals are, after all, born and bred for war.) Before he can move forward again, the skeleton whips back around and gestures wildly at the centaur. 

“And you stop it, too!” they demand. “You’re making him angry on purpose. The matron’s gonna be mad at both of you if you’re fighting. You gotta be good.”

The centaur sighs, folding her arms across her chest. “You gonna go tell the matron, tattletale?”

“Not if you stop it.”

“Fine—but next time I’ll make sure you aren’t around to rescue him.” She pins her ears at Grillby, baring her teeth before turning and trotting away with a brash flick of her tail. Grillby’s own tail lashes as he glowers after her, his hands curling into fists and his flames trembling with fury. Smoke curls from his mouth, thick and dark. 

In front of him, the skeleton sighs heavily. “Stop it,” they say again. “The matron doesn’t like mean kids. You’ll get into trouble.”

Grillby growls at them—a thready, high-pitched noise full of crackles that don’t sound nearly as intimidating as they will years from now, when they echo from an adult elemental’s inferno of a chest. The skeleton...absolutely ignores him, crossing the short distance between them in a few brisk steps before reaching up to smack the dust from the centaur’s hoof off of Grillby’s shirt. Grillby expects them to yelp and jerk back in pain when they touch him (he _knows_ he’s burning hot right now, and his clothes may be fireproof but they sure as hell aren’t heatproof). They don’t flinch back, though. They don’t even notice.

“That’s Lucy,” they say, continuing to smack the dust away a little _too_ enthusiastically. It aches somewhere deep in Grillby’s chest, and he pushes their hand away and scowls. “She’s rude a lot, but once you get to know her she’s not so bad. She won’t let kids like you pick on her, though, so you’d better quit it.”

But it wasn’t _his fault._ She’d been the one to start it! He wants to say as much, but there’s a clot in his throat and he hasn’t been able to get it to move for quite some time, ever since—well. So he snaps his flames in irritation instead, folding his arms across his chest. The skeleton sighs through their nose and steps back, setting their hands on their hips.

“I’m Wingdings,” they say, “but you can call me Wings. Everybody does. What about you? What’s your name?”

Grillby glances away. He wishes this little brat would leave him alone already. He’s not exactly in the mood for friends _—_ especially not ones as bossy and nosy as this skeleton is turning out to be.

“Okay.” Wings rocks back and forth on their heels. “Then I’m gonna call you Sparkles.”

Grillby’s flames pop in affront, and Wings laughs.

“So how old are you? I’m five.” They hold up their hand, all five fingers splayed out. Grillby scowls, leaning away from their hand. How old is he? Why should _he_ know? He wasn’t the one who kept track of all those things. That was what the breeders were for. 

“Wingdings.” 

Grillby and Wings both jump and glance up—the matron looms above them, her face creased with worry.

“Oh—hi, missus,” Wings says, waving their splayed hand. 

“That’s enough, now, dear. You’d best leave Mr. Grillby alone. He’s still adjusting and he needs his space,” the matron says, setting a cautious hand on top of Wings’ skull. “Run along.”

Wings casts one last hesitant look at Grillby before heading back towards the gaggle of children near the playground. The matron kneels in front of him, smoothing her skirt down. 

“By your teeth, you’re six years old,” she tells him. He makes a mental note of that. It seems like it might be important. “Are you hurt?”

His chest stings. He shakes his head.

“Good. The children told me what happened between you and Lucy. You musn’t behave like that, Grillby,” she says. “I know perhaps that’s how you’ve—well, how you’ve been taught to act, but that isn’t how civilized monsters do things. You must learn patience and kindness if you’re going to enjoy your life here. Now, come along. It’s almost storytime.”

She leads him back towards the other children, and he begrudgingly follows her—orders from adults are, after all, one thing he knows better than to disobey. (That silly little skeleton finds him at storytime, and they sit together. The same thing happens the next day, and the next, and the next, until it’s almost as much a habit as fighting is.)

* * *

Grillby _hates_ math. It makes absolutely no sense. The numbers all jumble up in his head until there’s a deep throbbing behind his eyes and he snaps white with irritation. He’s not _supposed_ to understand things like this. His breeders always told him he was meant for fighting, not thinking. Those sorts of complex things were for the bosses, not for little soldier sparks like him. He needed to learn basic letters and numbers so he could follow orders issued in writing, but that was the extent of it. This _arithmetic,_ this _reasoning?_ It’s not for him. He was bred for strength, not intelligence.

To put it simply, he _knows_ he’s stupid—but by the _gods_ he can’t stand it when someone else tells him that.

“Come on, seriously?” Gourley asks, arching his eyebrow. “We just went over this. Were you listening at all? Nine multiplied by three is just nine added together three times. What’s nine plus nine plus nine?”

Grillby scrubs a hand through his headflames, dragging his claws along his scalp. He picks up his pencil, stares at the numbers. Nine plus nine is eighteen. Eighteen plus nine is—is—agh! His fingers twitch with the urge to count on them, but the matron had scolded him for that one too many times already. Instead, he writes it out the way they’ve been taught to write out their addition problems.

Beside him, Gourley snorts. “Why do you have to write it out? Eighteen plus nine is twenty seven.”

Grillby snarls—he’d been figuring it out! He doesn’t need people _butting in_ while he’s trying to think, godsdammit. It’s hard enough as is.

“Mr. Grillby, that’s quite enough,” the matron says, shooting him a sharp look and heading in his direction. “Gourley, go back to your seat.”

Grillby scowls at his paper as the matron nears him, his fist tightening around his pencil. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Wings shoot him a concerned look. The shame in his chest boils harder when he sees that—he doesn’t want their _pity._

“What seems to be the problem?” the matron asks, stopping next to him.

He crackles irritably, hunching over his paper. 

“Use your words, young man.”

Bitter smoke seeps between his teeth as he hisses, his voice hoarse from disuse, “I can’t _do_ it.”

“Can’t do what?”

He curls his fingers into his paper and it begins to smolder.

“Watch yourself, Grillby. You’ll have to redo it if you—”

The paper whooshes into flames. Ash sprinkles across his desk. The startled look on the matron’s face gives Grillby a momentary twinge of satisfaction—then Gourley bursts into laughter. 

“Aw, man! It took you an hour just to get halfway done! Now you’re gonna have to start all—”

Grillby lunges. Gourley yelps and snakes out of the way, flighty little naga that he is— _cowardly_ little naga that he is. His powerful brown tail whips around and sends his desk chair flying into Grillby’s legs. Grillby stumbles, but he uses his downward momentum to his advantage, lurching forward and sinking his claws into the smooth scales of Gourley’s tail. He _burns_ his fingertips, and Gourley shrieks and lashes his tail. That tail clips Grillby in the jaw and sends him toppling over backwards. 

Gasping, Grillby tries to scramble back up, but before he can something small crashes into his chest and shoves him back beneath his own desk. His flames surge with fury, and he digs white-hot claws into two narrow, boney shoulders before he realizes what he’s doing—and who he’s doing it to.

 _“Don’t,”_ Wings hisses, glowering up at him. “Do not.”

This wretched kid is going to be the death of him. He unhooks his claws, scowling when he notices the scorch marks he’s left in Wings’ sweater. 

“Don’t give me that look. You’ll be lucky if I get you out of this,” they spit. They turn around, keeping Grillby behind them, and peek out from under the desk at the matron. “Sorry, missus. Sorry, Gourley. You know how he gets. The math’s just frustrating him, that’s all, and what Gourley said didn’t exactly help.”

The matron puts her hands on her hips, frowning severely at the both of them. Grillby’s flames crackle unhappily. He...doesn’t like that look aimed at Wings. “That’s no excuse for such violent behavior, and you know it,” she says. “I’ve been very merciful with him, given his unfortunate upbringing, but he’s been here over a year now. He ought to know better. If he doesn’t, then more extreme measures must to taken to ensure that he learns.”

...extreme measures, huh? A heavy, cold pit begins to build in his chest. 

“No,” Wings says, pushing themself closer to Grillby. “Just give him another chance. Come on, please? Gourley’s not even hurt that bad! Right, Gourley?”

Gourley runs his hands along the scorch mark in his tail—it’s small but dark and deep, and Grillby knows it has to hurt, because Grillby’s not good at math but he’s _very_ good at hurting people. “It stings,” Gourley complains, “but I guess it’s not that bad. I hit him back, anyway.”

“You were defending yourself, Gourley, and I daresay I’m glad you did. Grillby, you could have seriously hurt him.” The matron crouches in front of their desk. “I won’t tolerate this sort of behavior any longer. Get up, get your things, and go to the headmaster’s office at once.”

Grillby begins to move. Wings reaches out and grabs his wrist. 

“No,” they say. “He shouldn’t have to go. He didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

Of course he meant to hurt Gourley. Wings has such silly, blind faith in him—silly and stupid. Grillby tugs his wrist away and stands, beginning to cram his things into his bag. Wings scrambles up after him, their eyes wide. 

“Missus, please,” they say, reaching out to snag Grillby’s wrist again. That’s getting annoying. He sparks his flames to let them know before tearing his arm out of their grip once again. They scowl at him before whipping back around to look pleadingly at the matron. “He can’t control himself. He needs somebody to teach him, not somebody to punish him and make him feel bad and—and—”

“Let the adults handle this, Wingdings. Come here.” She reaches out, resting a gnarled hand on Wings’ shoulder. 

Wings stumbles backwards, into Grillby. “No.”

“Unless you’d like to go to the headmaster with him, you’ll come here now.”

“I’ll go,” Wings says immediately. 

Grillby stiffens. “...no you won’t.”

“What?” Wings glances back at him. “Speak up back there, buddy.”

“No,” Grillby says, clearing his throat, “you _won’t._ I’m going. You stay.”

“What? Grillby, I—”

Grillby points firmly at Wings’ desk. _“Stay.”_

Wings falters, hurt flashing across their face, but they stay, and that’s what matters. Grillby slinks to the headmaster’s office alone, his tail curling nervously around his own leg. Angry he may be, but even he fears the pain of an adult’s punishment. He just...hadn’t thought they would do that, here. No one has set a hand on him since Ashlynn dropped him off at the school’s front door with a single bag of supplies and a warning label on his shirt. 

The headmaster is an intimidating monster—an enormous minotaur with arcing, polished black horns. The golden ring in his nose fogs with every breath he takes, and Grillby can’t quite meet those baleful brown eyes when they settle on him. 

“Grillby,” the headmaster says, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on the desk. “How old are you, now?”

“Seven,” Grillby says—by his teeth, since his birthday is a thing lost to dust and ash.

“And how long have you been here?”

“A year.”

“Do you like it? Do you enjoy your time in the classes, in your rooms?”

He shrugs. He doesn’t really enjoy anything—he just survives.

(Except that’s not quite true anymore, he realizes, with a sudden jolt. He’s started to enjoy storytime, if only because Wings sits next to him and makes snarky comments. Mealtimes are alright, too. He does very much like food, especially when he doesn’t have to compete for it.)

“What makes you unhappy? There must be something,” the headmaster says, spreading his hands. Grillby doesn’t like thinking about how much those hands are going to hurt when they strike him. “Happy children don’t go around brawling every other day, and you, my boy, have made quite a name for yourself doing just that.”

Grillby shrugs again.

The headmaster exhales softly, his ears flicking. He smells like grass, like wide open spaces and the wind. He smells absolutely unfamiliar. “I understand that way you were raised was unique, to say the least,” he says. “Ashlynn was very clear about that when he brought you to us, but bring you he did, because he thought this would be a safe place for you to learn and recover. We mean to teach you how monsterkind truly functions. We are not your breeders and your bosses and your mercenaries. We do not want you to fight. Do you understand that?”

Grillby nods. He understands that _very_ well. These people are nothing like his family, and he resents them for it every day.

“So why, then, do you continue to fight?”

Grillby spreads his hands helplessly. 

“I need a better answer than that.”

“People,” Grillby rasps, after a long moment in which it becomes clear the headmaster isn’t going to fill in the silence for him, “piss me off.”

“People piss me off too, sometimes,” the headmaster says, leaning back in his chair, “but I don’t hurt them because of it.”

Grillby arches an eyebrow disbelievingly at him. Isn’t that exactly what a punishment is? Isn’t that _exactly_ what he’s about to do to Grillby?

The headmaster makes a quiet, knowing sound. “Ah. I bet that’s what you’re waiting on. You expect me to hurt you. That’s what your bosses did to you, isn’t it?”

Grillby shakes his head. Bosses wouldn’t be caught dead dealing with flames as young as Grillby—not even his own sire would stoop so low. He wasn’t worth their time. They had much bigger things to deal with; the breeders and the trainers were responsible for keeping him and his littermates in line, and a fine job they did of it. This school, in comparison, is ridiculously lax. He almost _wishes_ the headmaster would hurt him, if only for the sense of normalcy it would offer.

“Well, I’m not going to hurt you.” The headmaster folds his arms across his chest. “That’s what got you into this state, anyway. I think a little bit of service would do better for you. For the next week, during recess, you’re to stay inside and help Missus Mole clean up the classroom. You can expect the same treatment any time you get into a fight. I expect you’ll make a very good janitor by the end of the year.”

Grillby prickles, his tail twitching irritably. “...what if it’s not my fault?”

“Oh, Grillby,” the headmaster says, looking at him with sad amusement. “When is it not?”

...he has a point.

* * *

“Why’d your parents leave you here?” Wings asks shortly after they’ve moved into the fifth-grade dormitories and claimed each other as roommates. 

Grillby crackles questioningly at them.

Wings glances over at him, arching their eyebrows—or, er, whatever the skeletal version of eyebrows are. Bonebrows? ...Grillby doesn’t understand skeletons. “You know? Your parents?” Wings prompts again. “Your mama and your papa?”

Grillby shakes his head, tossing his stress ball into the air. It plummets back down, and he catches it neatly before tossing it up again.

“Well, _somebody_ had to make you. Monsters don’t just appear.” Wings flails their hands thoughtlessly, knocking one of their many knicknacks off of their desk. This one is a particularly shiny rock they’d found on the playground, and they yelp and dive after it. “Unless—oh, are you an orphan?”

Grillby shakes his head more adamantly. He knows what orphans are—they’re unclaimed, unwanted creatures. They’re the ones who were shoved out of the way when mealtimes came, when the breeders dropped spoils into their nests and Grillby clawed his way through his siblings to take what belonged to _him._ They’re the ones that died cold and alone because they could not fight the way they were born to.

…’s almost kind of sad, now that Grillby thinks about it.

“Okay, sooo—what happened to your parents, then?” Wings asks, settling in at their desk again and propping their chin in their hand. “I’ll tell you what happened to mine if you tell me what happened to yours.”

Curiosity prickles at Grillby, and he catches his stress ball one last time before sitting up. “...hard to explain.”

“That’s okay. I’m good at asking questions.” Wings grins cheekily at him, turning around and sitting backwards in their chair. “Take your time.”

Grillby does just that. He draws a foot towards himself, unsheathing his hind claws and beginning to fastidiously groom them. The absent stroking of his flames helps him focus—it reminds him of being groomed by the breeders, back when he was a little spitfire of a thing. They’d been rougher, of course, brushing crumbles from his core with heavy hands and pinching if he squirmed too much. 

“I was born a war elemental,” he starts, choosing his words carefully and slowly. “My sire—my papa—was one of the bosses, but I don’t know which one. My mama was a breeder. I don’t know which one she was, either. We were all raised together.”

“We?” Wings asks—there’s confusion on their face already, but none of the disgust Grillby had been expecting. He’s learned, over the past few years, that the way he was raised is considered...well, awful, and most people look horrified the second _war elemental_ is mentioned. His therapist is the only one who asks, anymore.

“All the litters,” he says, and when Wings opens their mouth to ask, he quickly amends, “All the kids. Elementals only have babies when it’s warm out, so all of us were born at once, and the breeders raised us as one big group. I don’t think they even knew which kids belonged to who. It didn’t really matter.”

“...because they loved you all the same?” Wings asks hopefully.

Grillby shrugs, toying with the spearhead tip of his tail. “Yeah,” he says, finally. “I guess so.”

“So what happened? Why’d they leave you here?”

Grillby grimaces, less than thrilled with that question. It dregs up memories that he’d much prefer to leave alone—memories that clog his throat with ash and dust. He shakes his head, flopping back onto the carpet and reaching for his stress ball again. With his free hand, he waves at Wings.

“Alright, alright. My turn, huh? Well, let’s see.” They lean back, swinging their legs. “I know who my mama is, and my papa. They’re both pretty nice, but they don’t really have time for me or my brothers and sisters, so—boarding school it is.”

Grillby frowns. “...why’d they have you if they weren’t gonna raise you?”

“I think they just—” Wings spreads their hands hopelessly. “—felt like they had to.”

“Dumb.”

“Yeah, I know.” They sigh heavily, and they look...unusually morose, for a moment. Grillby can’t be having a sad Wings on his hands, so he draws his arm back and pelts his stress ball at them. His aim is true, and it thunks them right between the eyes. They yelp and jerk backwards, gaping at him. “You— _what?”_

He crackles with laughter, rolling out of the way seconds before Wings lobs a stuffed bear at him. He dives for his bed, grabbing his pillow and whirling around in time to whack Wings in the face with it. Wings squeals in offense, snagging their own pillow from their bunk and going to work walloping Grillby. They descend into an outright pillow fight after that, chasing each other around and around their tiny little dorm room and giggling their fool heads off. 

Grillby thinks, for a second, that he could get used to fights like this.

* * *

“...and then you replace the ‘y’ with zero to solve for the x-intercept,” Wings explains, showing Grillby their whiteboard. Grillby nods his lazy understanding, his tail curling and flicking peacefully as Wings walks him through their math homework. He’s sprawled out on the floor of the commons room, crackling warmly as the rain sheets down outside. The wind gusts against the walls, but Grillby is, for the moment, fearless. 

“Hey, guys,” Daphne says, skidding to a stop beside them in a flurry of red feathers. She flops down next to Grillby, and he burns a little more warmly to greet her. “Sorry I’m late. I had to ask the matron about some things. What page are we on?”

“Three seventy-five,” Wings says. “We just finished question six. Are the line equations making sense to you?”

“I think so, but I’ll get back to you in a few minutes,” Daphne says, laughing. She fluffs her feathers, lifting a wing to soak in more of Grillby’s heat. “Grillbz, you keepin’ up?”

Grillby nods lazily.

“I’m not sure he isn’t half asleep,” Wings complains, reaching out to poke his forehead. “C’mon, you gotta focus, mister. You don’t wanna fail the seventh grade and get held back and not graduate with us, right?”

Grillby shakes his head.

“Good! Then you’re showing me how to do question seven.” Wings shoves the whiteboard into his hands. “Get to work, Sparkles.”

Grillby groans, but he sits up and he gets to work. As he’s fumbling his way through the question, a cluster of noisy younger students enters the commons. He pays them little enough mind—until, that is, one of them decides to _step on his fucking tail._ It shoots a bolt of pain straight up his spine, and he hisses and whirls around in a flurry of upset flame. The offender yelps and jumps back, holding their hands up.

“Sorry, sorry!” they say, and Grillby grudgingly begins to relax—until, that is, the large werewolf behind his offender steps forward and bares their teeth.

“Hey, don’t act like that,” the werewolf snaps. “She didn’t mean to step on your tail. Keep it closer to you, would you? Gods, you’re taking up the whole floor.”

Grillby’s flames lick higher again. His tail (his _sore_ tail) begins to twitch.

“Grillby,” Wings warns. 

“Or maybe,” Daphne says, surging to her feet and fluffing out her feathers, “you should watch where you’re _going._ He _glows,_ for gods’ sake, he’s hardly difficult to see! He has as much right to this room as any of us do.”

“Then he should treat it with a little bit of respect, don’t you _think?”_ The werewolf jabs Daphne in the chest with one claw, and Grillby sees red. How dare they lay a hand on his friend. _How fucking dare they._

Wings groans, and Grillby lunges. 

First, he tackles the werewolf backwards, into one of the couches, and opens his maw to reveal his teeth—two rows of them, now. (The only thing to let him know he’s finally thirteen.) He manifests his claws from the tips of his fingers, drives them into the werewolf’s chest and lets each clawpoint _burn._ He leaves ten black dots of burnt, smoking fur in his wake, and the werewolf yowls and cuffs him hard enough to have his head ringing.

Then the werewolf opens their own mouth and shows him _their_ teeth—a single row of gleaming ivory—before they bite his shoulder. He snarls, scrabbling his claws down their chest and stomach as he feels his magic burst from the wound in his core. The werewolf screeches as that magic boils under their mouth, yanking back. As soon as they do, Grillby fits a hand around their throat and pins them against the couch so they can’t bite him again, because holy shit, that’s gonna _hurt_ as soon as the adrenaline wears off.

Something flickers in the corner of his vision, and he whirls around and snatches the hand that’s coming at him. His fingers seize tightly around a thin wrist, but his other hand is too busy holding the werewolf—he can’t defend himself as another skeletal hand surges forward, fingers curling into the collar of his sweatshirt and yanking him forward. He unbalances, toppling off of the couch and into the floor. When he scrambles into a crouch, Wings stands in front him, little fists balled up in anger.

“Grillby,” they say, _“stop.”_

Grillby’s almost tempted to listen. 

Then the werewolf jumps at him again, and the two of them brawl across the commons room, snarling and snapping and tearing their claws through each other—but Grillby was born fighting, and he’s had more practice than this werewolf could ever _dream_ of. In the end, it isn’t much of a contest. Grillby stops when his knee is on the werewolf’s back and they’re littered with oozing burns, a miserable whine on their every exhale. He wants to hurt them.

He really, _really_ wants to hurt them.

Wings drags him backwards before he can. “You _dumbass,”_ they hiss, and Grillby glances up just in time to see the matron storming towards them. “Are you actually this dense or are you just constantly trying to piss me off?”

In the end, the matron gives him an earful (he’s heard most of it before) and a week of in-school suspension, then shoves a broom into his hand and tells him to clean the whole of the commons. He does so, and then he heads back to his room and collapses onto his bed. On the bunk above him, he hears Wings growl seconds before they clamber off of their mattress and onto his. 

“You,” they say, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You know what the ‘days Grillby’s gone without a fight’ counter just went down to? Huh? Zero! That’s right, you ruined it. What do you have to say for yourself, you sweltering hobgoblin?”

Grillby crackles with amusement, pushing Wings’ hand away. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, I bet you are.” They huff, flopping down beside him and glowering at the top bunk. Little glowing plastic stars litter the wooden slats above them—Wings had stuck them on a few nights after they’d moved into the seventh grade dorms because staring up at the bottom of a bunk night after night _had_ to be boring, and they would _hate_ for Grillby to be bored. For a moment, the two of them are silent, studying their false stars. Then: “You’re hurt, aren’t you?”

Grillby shrugs aimlessly.

Wings groans, then sits up and pushes Grillby’s sleeve out of the way. The bite mark on his shoulder smolders faintly, the edges of his core crumbling inwards. It’ll take some time to rebuild his solidity there, but it’s only a nuisance. His risk of infection is nonexistent, since he cheerfully boils bacteria alive the moment they touch him, and his heat naturally cauterizes any broken core within seconds to keep his magic from leaking out for too long. 

His is a body made for war.

“Dumbass,” Wings scolds again, skirting their fingers around the wound. “Hold still.”

They rummage underneath Grillby’s bed, pulling out his bottle of butane. He makes a face, but he figures cooperating is the least he can do after upsetting them again. Wings drizzles butane over the wound, rubbing it into his cracked core, and his flames sizzle happily in heated blues and yellows as they soak in the fuel. It stings some, but he doesn’t complain, and Wings swiftly tucks the bottle back under the bed before laying beside him again.

“Why’d you do it?” Wings asks.

“They hurt Daphne.”

“They didn’t. They barely touched her.”

“They shouldn’t have done that.”

“Your overprotectiveness is showing.”

Grillby snorts.

“Hm.” Wings folds their arms over their narrow chest. “Doesn’t it stress you out? Feeling like you have to protect everybody so much?”

“Not everybody.”

“You know what I mean.”

Grillby shrugs, then spreads his hands helplessly.

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Wings chastises. “We’re perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves. We don’t need you to be our knight in shining armor all the time.”

Grillby arches an eyebrow.

“We can! And even if we _couldn’t,_ it’s not your job to constantly be on the lookout. You’re a kid, just like the rest of us. It makes me sad when you don’t act like it.”

Grillby’s eyes flicker away. 

“I know it’s not your fault,” Wings continues, more softly. “Er, well. Some of it’s not your fault—but some of it _is._ You’re not a little kid anymore. You can control how you act, and I expect you to start doing that.”

“...’ve been trying.”

“I know you have, and you’ve been doing great. We were up to sixty-eight days without a fight!” Wings sits up, their eyes sparkling. “And that’s awesome! Just keep trying, okay? I know you can do it, because you know what?”

Grillby glances uncertainly at them.

“You—” Wings pokes his nose. “—are one tough cookie.”

They clamber back into their own bed as Grillby crackles in pleased pinks and greens. He _is_ a tough cookie, isn’t he?

* * *

Puberty makes everything worse because of course it does. He gets glasses— _apparently_ being unable to see anything but fuzz at distances greater than five feet isn’t normal—and nine times as many hormones as he wants. He grows slowly, compared to some of the other monsters (i.e. Wings, who’s actually had the nerve to suddenly get _taller_ than him), but he still has to endure wretched growing pains. They make his core itch and sting, and more often than not he feels dry and crusty and _gross._ He slathers himself near-constantly with fuel, but his flames always sputter in erratic colors because some spots of his core will inevitably be fuel-soaked while other spots rapidly grow dry and useless. 

To make matters even worse, his teeth grow. He doesn’t gain a new set quite yet, but the two sets he does have lengthen and sharpen. He has no idea how to ease the pain until he gets the wild idea to _chew._ He’s seen the dogs doing it to ease their teething pains, but the concept is completely foreign to him. His teeth simply aren’t made for it—they’re sharp things, but fragile. Even so, he takes to chewing carefully (and gently) on old t-shirts until the pressure eases the deep ache in his jaw. Daphne teases the shit out of him for it, but when he runs out of old shirts to chew into smithereens, she’s quick to offer her own.

That’s not the worst part, though. The worst part? _Hormones._ Gods, he hates hormones—not only his own, but the hormones of everyone around him, too. They cause too much change in too little time and leave him reeling. Being the only elemental in the entire school doesn’t help, either. He has no idea what’s supposed to be happening to him, so he’s naturally a little... _confused_ when he hits his first heat cycle. 

It isn’t anything glamorous. It’s not a _fuck or die_ situation. He simply wakes up in the middle of the night and feels _hot—_ which is a rare thing indeed, considering his surroundings never even feel warm to him. Compared to his own body temperature, everything is freezing. Today, however, he’s sweltering. He groans and kicks off his blankets, panting in billows of white smoke. Wings flails an arm over the side of their bunk.

“Grillby,” they mumble, “dude. Chill. ’s too hot.”

Grillby sighs his agreement. He tries to cool himself down, and it must work some, because Wings doesn’t gripe at him again. (Then again, Wings isn’t very temperature-sensitive, so they might not be the best judge.) He lapses back into sleep, and when he wakes the next morning, he’s...sweltering again.

Wings sticks their head over the side of the bunk. Sweat rolls down their skull. “I am going to die,” they announce. “You are going to bake me to death. Death by sleeping elemental, that’s how I go. Boiled bone, stewed in my own sweat. Absolutely disgusting.”

He flaps a hand at them apologetically and rolls out of bed. The second he stands up, the world sways around him. Oh, jeez. Oh, dizzy. His core feels like it’s crawling. He scratches anxiously at his arm, resisting the urge to simply flop to the floor and wallow against the carpet. It’s nothing he hasn’t done before—has he mentioned growing pains make him _itch?—_ but he wants to preserve some of his dignity, this early in the day.

“You okay?”

When he glances back, Wings is watching him with a furrowed brow. He nods, snagging a tank top from his closet and pulling it on. Breakfast isn’t ever anything special, but Grillby’s usually ravenous anyway. He’ll eat just about anything. Today, however, he’s...not actually hungry. He pokes at his scrambled eggs and doesn’t miss the concerned look Daphne and Wings trade over his head.

“Are you sick, or are the eggs just that unappealing?” Daphne asks.

“I thought they were pretty _egg-shell-ent,”_ Wings says through a mouthful of syrup.

Grillby rolls his eyes fondly at the pair of them, waving a hand dismissively. 

“No, but seriously, Sparkles,” Wings says, licking their teeth clean with a manifested (and hideously bright purple) tongue. “The last time you didn’t eat breakfast you vomited ash for, like, a week. If you’re not feeling good you should go to the nurse’s office before it gets any worse.”

He shakes his head. “No, I’m alright. I just feel a little strange, that’s all. I—”

“Nurse’s office,” Wings and Daphne say together.

“I don’t need—”

“Now,” they chorus cheerfully, and then take it upon themselves to escort him. They abandon him there (with a little _too_ much glee, he thinks) under Missus Dallas’ seventy-nine watchful eyes. She directs him to sit on her exam table, so he sits and hunches his shoulders and tries to ignore the gnawing discomfort in the pit of his stomach. _Is_ he sick?

Stars, he hates being sick.

Missus Dallas fusses around him with her thermometer, then peers into his eyes and his mouth. She listens to him describe his symptoms as she summons his soul for a check—the moment it leaves his chest, he gasps and curls his claws into the table because _holy fuck that feels awful._ His tail lashes unhappily, and his flames dim with the sudden urge to cower and hide.

“Oh, dear,” she says, studying his soul—it’s burning more brightly than usual (leastways to his unexperienced eye), flush and full with magic. Within seconds, she returns it to him, and he shudders with relief. “Yes, I think I know what’s going on. You’ve hit your first heat.”

Grillby blinks at her. “What.”

“Your heat—elementals have them,” she explains, bustling about her cabinets. “They’re a part of your reproductive cycle.”

Dread begins to settle in his chest, thick and heavy. “I—reproductive?”

He thinks of the breeders, of thin faces and fearful glances and the brutal snarls of their sires. His hands begin to shake.

“Yes, but don’t worry, it’s completely natural. Nothing to be afraid of.” 

She pats his hand, and he flinches.

“I don’t want to,” he says immediately. “I don’t want to—I don’t want to do that, I don’t want to make any other elementals, I don’t—”

Every single eye on her body goes comically wide when she looks at him. “Oh! Oh, no, no, honey, it’s alright. You won’t just _have_ a baby. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. This’ll go away on its own in about a week, just you see, and it won’t come back until next year. You fire elementals only cycle once a summer. Plus I’ve got some medications to get rid of those nasty symptoms for you, make it so you barely notice.”

So he takes her pills, and they _do_ ease his hot flashes and his nerves and the empty pit in his stomach. Even so, he doesn’t bother with class that day. He’s too busy thinking about the breeders, and about litters and litters and litters of elementals born to fight (born unloved and _angry)._ That evening Wings finds him sprawled out on his belly underneath every blanket he owns, binging _The Office_ and spicy Doritos.

“Hey,” they say, laying down next to him. Grillby snakes an arm possessively around their waist in greeting. “So? What’s the verdict? Are you sick?”

He shakes his head.

“Then what is it?”

He hesitates, his face hot—but if he doesn’t trust _Wings,_ then who the fuck does he trust? “Heat,” he says, clearing his throat. “It’s an elemental thing. It’ll go away in a few days, so don’t worry about it.”

“Oh.” Wings sits up, their eyes widening. _“Oh.”_

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Like a _cat!”_

Grillby drags his hands down his face. “You made it weird.”

“Hey, no,” Wings says, clearly trying to hide their grin behind their hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. Except—well, I mean. It _is_ kind of weird.”

Grillby flails his hands.

“But don’t feel bad! It’s not your fault. It’s a natural thing. At least you don’t have a menstrual cycle or something.”

“A what.”

“Oh my god, you haven’t heard? It’s this thing some primates have, it’s a goddamn _horror story._ Get this…”

After Wings’ unnecessarily descriptive briefing, Grillby decides he’s...really very glad he doesn’t have a menstrual cycle. 

Unfortunately, throughout puberty, his emotions tend to feel as haywire as his hormones. He’s gotten better at managing them, thanks to Wings and Daphne and his therapist—but he’s far from perfect. When he’s seventeen (and almost a whole year without a fight!), those nasty emotions get the best of him again. 

He and Wings stroll down the hallway together, as is their custom, and Wings chatters cheerfully about their classes and their university tours. Grillby flickers in all sorts of colors as he listens, delighting in Wings’ obvious joy. His flames snap and curl giddily, and his sparks chase each other through the air. He doesn’t notice quite how showy he’s being until Daphne yanks him aside after class and hauls him down to her level.

“Grillbz, my man, my main dude, you were a _firework_ around Wings today,” she says. “What’s the deal?”

His brow furrows in concern. He was a...firework…?

“You didn’t notice? You were sparking everywhere,” Daphne says, flapping her wings to make her point. “You were super bright. You’re gonna need to start handing out sunglasses if you’re gonna be that bright all the time.”

“Oh.” A smile drifts across Grillby’s face, and several more sparks snap to life around him. “They make me happy.”

“I get that, you sap, but—”

Suddenly, there’s a riot of noise from down the hallway. Daphne and Grillby both whirl around to face it—Grillby places himself in front of Daphne, but the little bird is quick to shove him aside so she can see. Lucy seems to be arguing with a small phoenix, and if the scorching blue flames flickering at the edges of the phoenix’s beak are anything to go by, it seems to be getting pretty heated. 

“Hey,” Grillby says, glancing away, “we should go.”

“What? No way! Let’s just go talk to them—we can help,” Daphne says, marching forward. Grillby follows her more slowly. He knows perfectly well he’ll get angry if he tries to argue, and getting angry is the last thing he wants. He has a hard enough time controlling himself _without_ seeking conflict, but he certainly can’t let Daphne go alone. Besides, maybe if he can keep someone else from fighting, he’ll—

What? Prove something to himself? To Wings? 

That shouldn’t be as tempting as it is. 

“—say shit like that!” Lucy snarls, her hands balling into fists as she leans forward. She looms over the phoenix, her front hooves clattering angrily on the tile. “She didn’t do anything to you, you dumb fuck! If you’ve got a problem with me, _take it up with me.”_

“Oh, like you have any right to talk,” the phoenix spits. They flare their wings, trailing sparks. “You—”

“Hey, guys,” Daphne says, waltzing in between them. Anxiety twists in Grillby’s gut, but he keeps himself from diving in after her—one person in the way is more than enough. “Let’s just settle down, alright? There’s no reason for all this shouting. I’m sure if we can just talk things through, we’ll—”

The phoenix leaps, and with one powerful flap of its wings, it’s over Daphne’s head. With the second flap of its wings, it sends a wave of fire flaring forward and straight at Lucy. _That’s_ Grillby’s cue to get in the way. He lurches forward, shoving Daphne to the side and lifting his hands. He can’t absorb that much fire—he’s not strong enough for that, not yet—but he can redirect it, and redirect it he does. It slams into the lockers next to them, leaving a wide, blackened scorch mark.

“Okay,” Grillby says. It comes out as a whisper, so he clears his throat and tries again, more firmly, “Okay, that’s enough.”

The phoenix clearly doesn’t think this is the case. It shrieks, then dives down, and no way in _hell_ is Grillby going to run from a fight. But hey—at least he wasn’t the one to start it, this time. Wings has to give him _some_ credit for that, right? He takes a deep breath, then pushes his palms towards the phoenix. A blast of fire surges through the air, but fat lot of good _that_ does on a bird _made of fire._

It was a stupid, impulsive move. Even Grillby will admit that.

The phoenix slams into him, driving its beak deep into his forearm and slinging its head to tear out chunks of his core. He shrieks and pops in surprise, although the pain doesn’t hit him—not yet. The phoenix batters him with its wings, its talons raking through his shirt and down his abdomen. He fits a hand around its scrawny throat and shoves it back, desperate to keep that devilish beak out of him. 

His other hand he draws back and curls into a fist.

Before he can wallop the damnable phoenix, though, it brings its talons up and plunges them towards his eyes. He lurches backwards, dropping it before it can ruin his _very expensive glasses_ , and it slings its wings forward with a powerful burst of hot air. Yelping, he crashes into the ground, and his only thought is how ridiculous it’s going to be if he gets pummeled by a bird half his size. He scrambles into a crouch, but not soon enough. The phoenix leaps at him, beak angled at his chest—at his _soul_ —and Grillby freezes. Are they actually trying to _kill_ him? Over a little disagreement like _this?_ Disbelief flashes through him in a blinding wave, and then the phoenix crashes into him. He feels that hooked, awful beak brush against his chest, and then he does the only thing he can think to do, through his sudden panic—

He bites.

His teeth sink into the phoenix’s shoulder, and then they snap. When he jerks back, the phoenix has a shoulderful of Grillby’s fangs, and Grillby has a mouthful of hot, bleeding magic and crumbling obsidian. The phoenix jolts in surprise, and Grillby doesn’t waste his advantage. He yanks his feet up, splays white-hot claws, and rakes them savagely down the phoenix’s belly—hey, wouldn’t you know? Phoenixes bleed. A low, furious whine fills his head, curls through every flame. How dare they hurt him. _How dare they take his teeth from him._

Only very dimly does he realize Daphne is shouting.

Seconds later, he slams his fist into the phoenix’s keel and sends it crashing backwards, then scrambles to his feet and exhales smoke in a terrible snarl. He prowls forward, his tail lashing angrily at his heels. He leaves pawprints in smears of blood and magic. The phoenix staggers back onto its feet, hissing a warning at him—a warning he brutally ignores. He reaches forward, intent on clamping a hand around its scrawny-ass neck and throttling it. 

The second his hand nears it, however, a (by now very familiar) something slams itself into his back. He yelps and staggers forward, slamming his head quite inelegantly into the lockers above the phoenix. Seconds later, arms loop around his neck and haul him backwards, and he snarls in surprise as he staggers in the _other_ direction. 

“Grillby!” Wings howls. “You fucking _bastard!”_

That’s fair, Grillby thinks. He hooks his hands around Wings’ arms (careful with his claws, _careful)_ to keep himself from being choked, tossing his head back and irritably snapping his teeth—except oh, wait. He _doesn’t have those anymore._ He sees the moment Wings realizes that, too. Their eyesockets fly wide, their eyelights brightening with horror. They drop to the ground, their eyes never leaving his face. He tears his gaze away just in time to see the phoenix spreading its wings again—he lurches towards Wings at the same time Lucy surges forward, slamming her hooves into the phoenix’s tail to keep it from moving. 

Grillby doesn’t bother with what happens next. He grabs Wings’ hand, grabs Daphne’s wing, and drags them both back towards the dormitories. The headmaster’ll be showing up in seconds, at this rate, and Grillby would like to finish spitting up the shards of his teeth before he has to deal with _that._ Wings stumbles along behind him. They’re unusually quiet. Daphne is not.

“Oh my god!” she says, fuming. Grillby’s soul sinks. He doesn’t want to deal with her disappointment, not yet. “I can’t _believe that guy!”_

What? _That guy?_ Not...not Grillby?

“He could have seriously hurt you, Grillbz,” she says, her feathers bristling as she storms into Grillby’s dorm room. Grillby releases Wings’ hand, and they take a seat on his bed, steepling their fingers. “What the hell was he thinking, aiming for your _soul_ like that? It was literally just a hallway fight! A _spat!_ Damn it, damn it, _damn it—”_

He sets his hands on her shoulders, taking a deep breath. She copies his breathing, then enfolds him tightly in her wings, pressing her face to his chest.

“I was so _worried,”_ she whispers. “Don’t ever do that again. Oh, and your teeth, your poor teeth—please gods tell me they’re supposed to do that—”

He nods, gently worming his way out of her grip after a few seconds. He reaches into his mouth, scraping out a few shards of his teeth and tossing them into his wastebasket. Behind him, he hears Wings’ breath hitch.

“Please stop,” they say, and Grillby stops. He glances back over his shoulder, arching an eyebrow. “Come here.”

Grillby comes to stand in front of them, his tail curling uncertainly around his leg. Wings reaches up for his face, then hesitates.

“...can I help?” they ask.

Grillby lowers himself to kneel before them, and they reach out to cradle his face in their hands. He leans into their touch, allowing them to ease his mouth open and go to work plucking out the remnants of his teeth. Those teeth are meant to be his last line of defense, and without them, he’s realizing he feels painfully vulnerable. 

Fortunately, he has his friends to protect him.

Daphne sits next to him, rolling the bottle of butane out from underneath the bed. She slathers it into the wound on his forearm, carefully wrapping it in fireproof bandages. It’s unnecessary, but it makes him feel warm and fuzzy and loved, so he doesn’t complain. Wings tosses another handful of his teeth out, then hesitates, running their fingers along the few that haven’t shattered and remain embedded in his gums.

“Those have to come out,” Grillby says quietly—they’re a discomfort to him now, and leaving them in prickles at every instinct he has. He’ll regrow his teeth quickly, but if any are left in now, they’ll be forced into crooked positions that will make it mightily uncomfortable for him to close his mouth. (At least that’s what he learned when he read that book on fire elementals Ashlynn gave him last year. He hopes it’s true, or he’s breaking teeth for nothing.)

“I don’t want to pull them,” Wings says, squirming uncomfortably. 

“Okay,” Grillby says, and then he does what instinct bids him to do—he _grinds_ his teeth as hard as he can and feels them crack under the pressure. Wings gulps. “Done.”

“Does it hurt?” Daphne asks as Wings gently removes the last few pieces of Grillby’s teeth. Grillby shakes his head, careful not to jar Wings’ fingers, lest his teeth slice the bone. Once his mouth is finally free of shards, Grillby sits back and runs his fingers uncertainly across his gums. It feels...strange. He doesn’t like it. By his teeth, he’s a fool.

“So it wasn’t your fault?” Wings asks, leaning forward. “You didn’t start it?”

“No, but he sure would’ve finished it,” Daphne crows, slugging him gently in the arm. “Lucy and that phoenix were arguing about something, so I stepped in to mediate. Unfortunately, my mediation skills were not appreciated and the phoenix went for Lucy, but Grillby stopped him just in time!”

“Really?” Wings looks hopefully at Grillby, who nods shyly.

“Yeah, really! Grillby didn’t even wanna get involved. He wanted to leave, but I...sort of made him stay.” Daphne rubs the back of her neck guiltily. “Sorry, Grillbz.”

He pats her shoulder gently. When he looks back at Wings, their eyes are shining.

“I’m proud of you,” they say, and Grillby’s face flares blue. He ducks his head, studying his hands—the scars on his knuckles, old and unforgiving. Wings leans forward, bonking their heads together and giggling. “Silly. We’ll talk more later, but first I’m gonna go grab some food. You must be starving after burning all that energy, and I doubt you’ll get a chance to go to lunch before the headmaster comes to get you. I’ll be right back.”

They slip out of the room. The second they do, Daphne whirls around, taking Grillby’s shoulders and rattling him. 

“Grillby!” she exclaims. “Grillby you’re blushing! Oh my god you’ve got it so bad— _puppy love._ You have _got_ to ask them out, seriously, you two have been dancing around each other since, like, freshman year.”

Grillby squawks in surprise—and no shortage of embarrassment—as he buries his face in his hands.

“C’mon, man. If you don’t snap them up before university, who knows when you’ll have the chance again, right? Grillby! Grillby stop looking so scared! You’ve gotta fight for what you want, and if anybody’s good at fighting, it’s you!”

...well. She’s right about that much, at least—so maybe, just maybe, she’s right about the other stuff, too.


End file.
